I’m thrilled to welcome Patricia Mann, author ofIs This All There Is and the newly released sequel, Is This What I Want? to close out the Age is Just a Number series. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did!

I recently discovered that not only is Patricia a fellow author with Booktrope and a friend of mine, she’s a sorority sister! Yes, we’re both sisters of Alpha Xi Delta. I enjoyed Patricia’s insightful post about learning to chase happiness instead of goals.

Turning forty-six last month left me wondering if it’s finally time to stop chasing the next big high. I’ve done so much, but none of it brought the kind of happiness or sense of fulfillment I anticipated. That’s okay, because I learned unexpected lessons and am now working to find pleasure in the little things that I once saw as too ordinary or boring.

At twenty-four, I had a master’s degree on the wall, a shiny new wedding ring on my finger, and two years of teaching at a university under my belt. I felt ready to take on the world. My long list of goals to accomplish before turning thirty included buying a house, launching a consulting career, and having my first child.

In case this seems like bragging, let me share a tiny bit of backstory. I was a troubled child and teen. I did not do well in school and did all sorts of unsavory things. My Type A personality disorder didn’t surface until I was almost twenty. Extremes have always been my strong suit.

I reached every goal I set out to achieve by the time I turned thirty, yet the night of my thirtieth birthday I found myself in a deep depression. Is This All There Is? I wondered. I have so much, I should be beside myself with bliss, I thought. But I wasn’t. So, like my son’s hamster, who runs around and around her little wheel, appearing to expect some grand treat to magically appear if she just keeps going, I decided to set new goals. In the next decade, I ran a marathon, had a second child, continued to teach while also starting my own consulting business, and began working on my first novel. Not surprisingly, the title of that novel would ultimately become Is This All There Is?.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew I was blessed to have a loving husband, wonderful kids, and a rewarding career. I tried not to take them for granted. But I always felt this gnawing pressure to do more, to take things up a notch. Looking back, I wish I had allowed for more time to stop and fully enjoy everything in my life. Like a true addict, each accomplishment immediately resulted in the need to go after something new, searching for that greater high. At forty-six, I think it’s time to break the cycle.

On my husband’s last birthday, his forty-fourth, I gave him a card with a simple message on the front in large, colorful letters. He put it in a spot where we’re both guaranteed to see it every day. I can now admit that the card was for both of us, maybe even more me than him. It reads: Do more of what makes you happy.

Wow. At forty-six, I’m forced to realize that I kind of had it wrong. Maybe it’s time to stop doing all the things I think I’m supposed to do. Maybe my need to over-achieve and impress people was actually fueled by a misguided desire to heal the shame of my shiftless youth. None of it worked. The recipe didn’t quite turn out right. Yet, I’m left with all the ingredients for a truly fulfilling life. Really high-quality ingredients, in fact. All I need is a new recipe.

I think I’ve done a pretty good job of meeting everyone else’s needs. Now I want to start honestly looking at how to better meet my own needs.

I have no big goals to achieve by the time I turn fifty. I mainly want to do more of what makes me happy. Having romantic dinners and laughing with my husband makes me really happy. Spending as much time as possible with my kids, listening to them talk about how they navigate the challenging teen years, playing games with them and watching funny shows together is pure joy for me. Cuddling and playing with our dogs is heaven. Work still makes me happy too, but I need to stop trying to prove myself and settle into feeling confident about what I have to offer. Having fun with friends makes me so happy. I need more time with my friends. Going to lunch with my mom is one of my favorite things to do. I’m often too busy and put it off for long periods. No more. Running with my dad is our special time together and it means the world to me. He would drop everything to go more often, all I’d have to do is ask.

Last but certainly not least, there is writing. I always wanted to write but didn’t find the courage to do it until later in life. If I am truly going to do more of what makes me happy, making more time to write is probably the biggest step I need to take. Not because of a deadline and not because I’m naïve enough to think it’s likely to result in money or fame, but because it makes me so, so, so very happy.

I suppose it’s up to me to keep adding to my list of what makes me happy on my own time, rather than making this post way too long. So I promise I will. I want you to promise me that you will too. Whatever age you are, it’s time for you to do this now. Say it out loud with me, okay? “I will do more of what makes me happy.”

What if you were approaching the end of your thirties and all of the life milestones you took for granted in your youth suddenly seemed out of reach? On the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday, Maggie Piper doesn’t look, act, or feel much different than she did at twenty-nine, but with her fortieth birthday speeding toward her like a freight train, she wonders if she should. The fear of a slowing metabolism, wrinkling of her skin, and the ticking of her biological clock leaves Maggie torn between a desire to settle down like most of her similarly aged peers and concern that all is not perfect in her existing relationship. When a spontaneous request for a temporary “break” from her live-in boyfriend results in a “break-up,” Maggie finds herself single once again and only twelve months from the big 4.0. In the profound yet bumpy year that follows, Maggie will learn, sometimes painfully, that life doesn’t always happen on a schedule, there are no deadlines in love, and age really is just a number.

Today on the Age is Just a Number blog series, I have Kenneth Bennett, author of the sci-fi thriller,Exodus 2022, expressing his thoughts on life at 54 and his passion for the environment. I especially enjoyed his comments about redefining the meaning of middle-aged.

LIFE AT 54

I’m 54 years old and having a blast. I have an amazing wife, a wonderful son (now in his first year in college) an incredible extended family and passions—writing, environmental activism, swimming, backpacking, cycling, skiing—that keep me fired up and looking forward. I’m blessed to be able to hang out with funny, positive people who inspire me. Three of the guys in my masters swimming group recently swam the Straits of Juan de Fuca, from Port Angeles to Vancouver Island (11 miles, 7 hours, 54 degree water). Their ages: 56, 58, and 60. There’s a 70-year-old dude in my cross fit class who lifts weights like a teenager and has the resting heart rate of a sword fern. People like this have caused me to reconsider what it means to be middle aged (and older) and to reject the cultural stereotypes foisted on all age groups.

Of course, like anyone who’s lived more than a couple decades, I’ve lost people dear to me. Witnessed my share of unhappy events. I’m fully aware that life can turn on a dime, that an accident or illness can sabotage the most carefully arranged plans. I try to take things day by day, and right now, I’m enjoying life more than I ever have. I’m comfortable with who I am and the path I’m on, excited about the future.

Perhaps because I am more aware of my mortality these days, I have more clarity about what really matters and what makes me happy.

One of the things that makes me happy is working on environmental causes. The planet is in dire shape. We’re losing species and habitat at an alarming rate. The U.S. Congress is now in the hands of people who set climate policy based on what Fox News pundits tell them to do vs. what scientists recommend. Writing about these things (in novels, articles, blog posts, tweets, and so on) is something I feel compelled to do. Also it’s cathartic. If I couldn’t write about this stuff I think I’d go mad. Example—my wife and I visited Yellowstone National Park in late October. It was just starting to get cold. Vibrant fall colors. Wildlife everywhere. Not many tourists. We headed for the Lamar Valley, our favorite part of the park—the place where wolves were reintroduced in 1995 and ‘96. The wolves were there. Hunting. Playing with their pups. Living their lives. One evening—right at sunset—we watched four black wolves, likely from the 8-Mile Pack, trotting along a ridge against a platinum sky. It was a magical scene I won’t ever forget.

Sadly, wolf hunting is legal outside the park and the 2014 season has been a bloodbath. Fifty one wolves have been taken in the Montana hunt since it opened in September—including some wearing radio collars—collars used by Yellowstone wildlife biologists to learn about wolf migration and behavior. Believe it or not, for some hunters, killing a collar-wearing Yellowstone wolf—a wolf that during its lifetime delighted tens of thousands of park visitors—is like winning the lottery. An achievement to be celebrated and bragged about on Facebook. The only way I can deal with this stuff is to write about it, work to educate people and fight for better laws. By the way, I’m not anti-hunting. I grew up hunting with my dad and brother-in-laws in Arizona and Alaska. I eat meat. What I’m against is trophy hunting and the senseless killing of highly intelligent, highly social animals that depend on intact family units—packs—to survive.

I’m optimistic that we will find ways out of this and other environmental messes we’ve created and I believe well-crafted stories can play a role. EXODUS 2022, my new sci-fi thriller, has received more than 100 reviews on Amazon to date and many readers mentioned that the book caused them to think about the planet, and other species, in new ways. One of my favorite comments came just a few weeks ago, from the educational curator of the Whale Museum in Friday Harbor, on San Juan Island: “… A must-read for anyone who cares about the oceans, wildlife, and the environment, and likes to think that the animals will win in the end. It’s my new happy place… Kudos to the author for creating a really imaginative way out of this environmental mess we’ve made of our planet.”

What if you were approaching the end of your thirties and all of the life milestones you took for granted in your youth suddenly seemed out of reach? On the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday, Maggie Piper doesn’t look, act, or feel much different than she did at twenty-nine, but with her fortieth birthday speeding toward her like a freight train, she wonders if she should. The fear of a slowing metabolism, wrinkling of her skin, and the ticking of her biological clock leaves Maggie torn between a desire to settle down like most of her similarly aged peers and concern that all is not perfect in her existing relationship. When a spontaneous request for a temporary “break” from her live-in boyfriend results in a “break-up,” Maggie finds herself single once again and only twelve months from the big 4.0. In the profound yet bumpy year that follows, Maggie will learn, sometimes painfully, that life doesn’t always happen on a schedule, there are no deadlines in love, and age really is just a number.

Thank you, Christina Boyd (reviewer, editor, social media specialist, publicist), for your honest thoughts below on aging. I see a lot of my own thoughts and fears in this post.

AGE IS JUST A NUMBER by Christina Boyd

Four away from 50. Four away from half a century. If I dwell on the number, I might hyperventilate. Or at least get that tight, squeezy feeling I have been starting to experience these last few years when in confined spaces.

I used to think that age was but a number. And that really, if I was satisfied with my life, happy with who I was with, what I was doing, where I was… then getting older was no big deal. That was when I was 25. Newly married to a dashing naval officer and had recently re-invented myself from a chipper, efficient flight attendant, and before that, a glory seeking pageant winner/wannabe model/college co-ed. But before I had re-invented myself many more times. Small business woman. Mother. Artist. Campaigner. Book reviewer. Book editor. And book publicity manager. Regardless, I know for a fact that 25 year old Christina would have thought a 46 year old was old. Definitely old. Not ancient, but certainly middle age.

So back to 46. And being 4 years from the big 5-0. It scares the hell out of me! There. I said it. Mostly because I recognize the new lines on my face and increasing number of greying hairs as surely proof of my own mortality. And damn, if each new birthday doesn’t mean Death is sneaking closer. Scary thought indeed. Thankfully my favorite aesthetician reminded me at my last birthday that I should wear my age like a badge and that each line or grey hair is really an indication of the growth and achievement, regardless of breadth. (Bless her heart. Obviously she is also very good at an hour’s worth of rejuvenating my soul as she expertly sands those lines off my face.)

Not long ago, I started reading the obituaries while having my morning cuppa and have found I am morbidly fascinated about these strangers’ lives, regardless of how big or small a mark they left. (Another sign of aging when I started reading the obits?) I was struck with how one of the dearly departed was described as having “completed his 80th trip around the sun.” What an exciting sentiment! Each year, an adventure around the sun. I have become so enchanted with that idea that now when I wish someone happy birthday, I prefer to congratulate on successfully completing another trip around the sun.

I wish I was always as confident about growing old gracefully as I endeavor to appear. Alas, there seems to be so much left on my Bucket List, and while checking things off of my Daily Task Lists and often feeling subjected to the schedule alerts on my iPhone, I wonder if I am making progress towards any of those Bucket List items. With grim thoughts like that, it doesn’t take much to start identifying with the Fanny Price character in Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, “Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings.” Mostly that’s just on dreary, blustery days as the days grow shorter and darker. So I do what I tell my kids, go outside. Take a run. Get some fresh air. And as I breathe deeply, despite a near constant cover of clouds and rain this time of year, I start to relax here in the lush, verdant Pacific Northwest. Take another cathartic breath. And it doesn’t take long before I am reminded of all the blessings that indeed fill me up. Soon all those niggling thoughts about schedule alerts start to come into perspective. Usually by the time I am finished my run (or walk), I am feeling more patient, more generous and more energized. Not old at all.

As fifty looms near, I confess I may not be comfortable with the idea of aging (though I am strongly against the alternative), I am hopeful by the prospect of another adventure around the sun. And with any luck, 46 more trips. Like my new daily regime of reading the obituaries, I must remember to stop, take a breath and count my daily blessings. Because when I am 92, wouldn’t it be a shame to reflect how my younger self worried about all the wrong things?

Christina Boyd wears many hats as she reviews for Austenprose.com, is an editor at Meryton Press, is a social media specialist and publicist at a hybrid publisher, Booktrope, and is a ceramicist for the Made in Washington stores under her own banner Stir Crazy Mama’s Artworks. She lives in the wilds of the Pacific Northwest (not 5 miles from the Canadian border) with her dear Mr. B, two busy teenagers and a retriever named BiBi. After reading The Six major Jane Austen works, her thirst for more could not be slaked, despite discovering on-line fan fiction, purchasing all the movie adaptations, attending Jane Austen Society of North America Annual General Meetings and becoming a life member of JASNA. Visiting Jane Austen’s England remains on her bucket list. Connect with Christina on twitter: @xtnaboyd

Coming soon:

How Do You Know (December 2nd)

What if you were approaching the end of your thirties and all of the life milestones you took for granted in your youth suddenly seemed out of reach?

On the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday, Maggie Piper doesn’t look, act, or feel much different than she did at twenty-nine, but with her fortieth birthday speeding toward her like a freight train, she wonders if she should. The fear of a slowing metabolism, wrinkling of her skin, and the ticking of her biological clock leaves Maggie torn between a desire to settle down like most of her similarly aged peers and concern that all is not perfect in her existing relationship. When a spontaneous request for a temporary “break” from her live-in boyfriend results in a “break-up,” Maggie finds herself single once again and only twelve months from the big 4.0. In the profound yet bumpy year that follows, Maggie will learn, sometimes painfully, that life doesn’t always happen on a schedule, there are no deadlines in love, and age really is just a number.

Today on the Age is Just a Number blog series, I’m very pleased to welcome Emily Clanton, Social Media Manager for Booktrope and self-proclaimed “social media geek.” Emily works tirelessly to promote Booktrope authors and so I am thrilled to turn the spotlight on her. Emily talks, not about a specific age, but about those pesky biological deadlines.

Biological Deadlines and the Future

As I cruise along in the summer time of my life, I really can’t say that I have a particular age that I’m afraid of reaching. I know. It seems a bit counter-intuitive for a lady (who had a birthday at the beginning of the month) to write something like that, but it’s true. Instead the source of my apprehension is reconciling the idea of hard biological deadlines that conflict with my chronological life plan.

Growing up as the eldest child in my family I wasn’t allowed to do very much. Even when I was old enough to get a job and save money for things like concert tickets, I wasn’t allowed to go. So, for me, college was when I was really able to hone my skills of goal setting and working to achieve these goals. For example, I graduated debt-free with a degree in art, and I had a job in Japan lined up within a few months of graduation.

Once I began to mentally sketch out plans for the end of my 20’s and into my 30’s, however, I stumbled into an issue that I had never seriously considered before: having children.

After hearing it described by friends, I don’t think this is my biological clock doing the thinking – at least, not yet. But the abstract idea of a baby isn’t far from my mind these days. When my husband and I discuss the house we want in the near future, it has to have enough space for our creative passions – visual art and music – as well as room for kids. Thinking about turning my art into a business, I mentally bullet list how much time I would need to carve out of a day away from the demands of these youngins who don’t even exist yet!

Human beings can do just about anything that they set their minds to at almost any age. Just as you can skydive at 90, you could play beautiful violin music at 10. That’s why my stomach hurts just a little bit when I think about the future. I know my husband and I are problem solvers and will figure things out when the time comes, but, in the meantime, having this unseen biological checkered flag flapping somewhere in the distance is more than a little stressful. Thank goodness for books, Dr. Mario on the Wii, and white wine!

~~~

Emily is a book-loving social media geek and creative type based in Atlanta, Georgia. She is the Social Media Manager for Booktrope and oversees the curation of the company’s social media accounts, its blog, and newsletter. A graduate of the Lamar Dodd School of Art at the University of Georgia, Emily enjoys painting, cooking (and eating) delicious things and the sudoku-esque challenge of crafting the perfect tweet.

Learn more about Emily’s current art project, Ratios and Recipes, wherein she is researching the best ways to make sustainable, water-based paints from natural pigments: http://ratiosandrecipes.com

What if you were approaching the end of your thirties and all of the life milestones you took for granted in your youth suddenly seemed out of reach?On the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday, Maggie Piper doesn’t look, act, or feel much different than she did at twenty-nine, but with her fortieth birthday speeding towards her like a freight train, she wonders if she should. The fear of a slowing metabolism, wrinkling of her skin, and the ticking of her biological clock leaves Maggie torn between a desire to settle down like most of her similarly-aged peers and concern that all is not perfect in her existing relationship. When a spontaneous request for a temporary “break” from her live-in boyfriend results in a “break-up,” Maggie finds herself single once again and only twelve months from the big 4.0. In the profound yet bumpy year that follows, Maggie will learn, sometimes painfully, that life doesn’t always happen on a schedule, there are no deadlines in love, and age really is just a number.

Welcome, Samantha Stroh Bailey to the Age is Just a Number series. Not only is Sam the author of Finding Lucas, one of my favorite books, and a cofounder of BookBuzz (along with Francine LaSala and me), she is also one of my favorite people and among my best friends. She’s talking 41.

I am Forty-One. What? I’m Forty-One?

By

Samantha Stroh Bailey

Yes, it is true. I am no longer twenty, thirty, or even thirty-nine. I am now “in my forties,” which shocks me every time I say it. Not because I haven’t lived every one of those years, but because inside my head, I feel twenty-five. Silly, hopeful, and with my future ahead of me. Yet, entering my forties, for some reason, was not as painful as when I turned thirty.

I still remember the night I went to a dance club for my thirtieth. I loved this particular club because they served the most delicious (and free!) sandwiches after midnight. I often embarrassed the people with me by hovering around the kitchen exit at 11:59 p.m., but oh, those sandwiches were worth their mortification.

I was dressed to the nines, as I usually was in those days, in something short, fitted, and showing skin I will never show again. And as the music pumped and drinks were poured, I felt sad and couldn’t figure out why. I had so many wonderful things in my life then — love, family, friends, a teaching career I was still excited about, I was finishing my Master’s degree, and I had almost completed my first novel, something I had on my Things-to-Do-Before-I’m-Thirty bucket list.

I didn’t have any kids yet, and at the time, I didn’t want any. Oh, how that changed. But I digress. I thought thirty meant grown up. No more nights out dancing; no more sleeping in until noon; no more lack of responsibility. My twenties were over. A new age bracket. A new decade. But the same old me who was scared at how fast time had zipped by.

But when the clock struck twelve, I looked around, wiped my sweaty face, and smiled. Always a goal-setter, at thirty, I had accomplished so much that I had wanted to, and everything else was still attainable. Thirty wasn’t old. I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do. And I realized that my thirties was going to be a time when I could do anything I wanted. And I did.

I had two kids, who are the light of my life, and I was published for the first time. A dream I had held for so long. I wrote four more novels, one of which I put out into the world, and many more that I hopefully will. I started my own writing/editing business, which was something I’d imagined but never thought would actually happen. I finally had enough money to buy a house, albeit a tiny one, and I had my own car. Yes, these were all grown-up things, but I also kept my love of life, coffee-fueled energy, and enough naiveté left to be surprised by so many things.

Turning thirty and then forty taught me two very important lessons. The first is that I really have achieved so many of the things I have wanted to, and though not all of my years have been easy, I have gotten through them stronger. The second is that time ticks forward despite our wish to stop it or slow it down. We can’t. So, now eleven years after my thirtieth birthday, I want a hundred more years to spend time with everyone I love and accomplish the new items on my bucket list. But this will likely not happen. So, aging has taught me to appreciate every minute, every second, really, and go after what I want because it is not what age you are that matters. It is what you do with the time you have.

Samantha Stroh Bailey is an author, editor, and journalist. Her published works include the novel, Finding Lucas, and she is the co-editor of the fiction anthology, A Kind of Mad Courage, to which she contributed the short story, Hide and Seek. She is also the co-founder of BookBuzz, a live author/reader event held in New York City and Toronto. When not writing and editing, she can usually be found curled up on her couch devouring a book or watching television with a bag of chips in her hand.

What if you were approaching the end of your thirties and all of the life milestones you took for granted in your youth suddenly seemed out of reach?

On the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday, Maggie Piper doesn’t look, act, or feel much different than she did at twenty-nine, but with her fortieth birthday speeding towards her like a freight train, she wonders if she should. The fear of a slowing metabolism, wrinkling of her skin, and the ticking of her biological clock leaves Maggie torn between a desire to settle down like most of her similarly-aged peers and concern that all is not perfect in her existing relationship. When a spontaneous request for a temporary “break” from her live-in boyfriend results in a “break-up,” Maggie finds herself single once again and only twelve months from the big 4.0. In the profound yet bumpy year that follows, Maggie will learn, sometimes painfully, that life doesn’t always happen on a schedule, there are no deadlines in love, and age really is just a number.

I am pleased to welcome Justin Bog, author of the newly released Hark—A Christmas Collection, to the Age is Just a Number blog series. I enjoyed hearing a man’s perspective on aging. Today, Justin talks about his fortieth birthday. And keeping reading for an excerpt from Hark—A Christmas Collection.

The Age I Fear . . . Turning 40 and every birthday afterwards.

I don’t love to live in the past. I don’t think about my past much, or reflect on nostalgic moments. I barely remember childhood birthdays, and I am a twin sharing this date with a brother born fifteen minutes ahead of me towards the end of July summer heat right smack in the middle of 1965. I live in the cliché of now, the present, and this is my mindset. I don’t worry about the future, the ups and upheavals to come since I cannot change either the future (or the past). I can only imagine doing so, and this helps when I create the fictional stories I tell.

I’ve had one major birthday celebration, and while a fantastic gathering of friends in Victoria, B.C. when turning 40, I felt unmoored. Since I don’t seek attention, the spotlight became something too bright and I continued to feel ephemeral and unworthy—I didn’t earn this. One participant jokingly said, “All this is for you?” He shook his head with disbelief, and I did as well. I’m from midwest roots where sticking out in any crowd is wrong, and even more scoundrel-like if anyone is sticking out in a crowd for doing something wrong, ill-mannered, or without a concern for how any action will touch someone else. Empathy became a charming companion. I placed others before myself, and still do. I now follow The Four Agreements whenever I’m facing conflict or difficult moments—and it does take some time to not take anything personally.

Seeking attention is the rub, and can’t be avoided on birthdays. Being a writer has made me falter at times on the marketing front because authors are supposed to be approachable, entertainers while reading their work in public, savvy at social media, but not too loud, not too self-centered, and there is a fine line that authors do end up crossing. Recently, I went to a gathering where I became too chatty, and myopic about writing, a deadly combination, and I learned a valuable lesson: less is more less is more less is more. I was in a room full of strangers, lovely people, but my own anxieties, frailties, chipped away at the role I was playing.

This huge 40th birthday party was unknown to me, a huge surprise, but intuition told me there would be something I’d have to be grateful for later, and I was (I am). The hardest thing about aging is a physical decline, and for some a mental decline rides right alongside the body’s decay. I watched my parents’ health decline, my mother’s passing at too young an age a few week’s prior to her birthday; the year before my father’s death filled with the stress of a familial betrayal, not living long after his birthday, unable to read any celebratory card. Birthdays, all of them now, are totems, markers where I can check my own frailties, how they progress or lessen. Many of the past several birthdays I’ve spent alone without any kind of cheerful party, and this solitude is welcome even though fear creeps in. When I do celebrate a birthday again, I’ll handle cheer much better, I promise, since I do know a lifetime is fleeting.

An excerpt from Hark—A Christmas Collection’s short story Seducing Santa:

It’s Christmas Eve and I have the whole night planned. I make dark chocolate rum cookies and spread them artistically on my good French china and, afterwards, I take a bath with jasmine-scented skin softener. I put on a new red lacy negligee, with a matching (warmer if I’m going to wait long) robe with dainty, feathery slippers, the kind that look like you have racy pompoms on your feet. I light all the candles in my living room, tall ones, thin ones, and wide ones, placed on the bookshelves and the end tables and turn off all the house illumination except for the flickering white lights of my small, tabletop Christmas tree. Then, I settle a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rosé into the ice bucket, ready to serve, and sit on my puffy couch, my legs tucked under me, waiting.

***

Is it silly to want someone so badly you’d do anything to be around that person? I’m known as a person who doesn’t rein in her passions. The Mr. Spocks of this world can kiss my sweet personality. Believe me, I’m really not speaking as any kind of stalker. I’ve never been a fan of celebrity. And, no, I didn’t have a poster of Kurt Cobain or Luke Perry on my wall …really (Okay—I will say one thing—I don’t think Courtney Love is a great role model. Who does she think she is anyway?). I’m not that desperate. You be the judge. Ask me if it’s silly to want someone so badly you’d act like a complete fool, I’d have to answer: no, with reservations, of course. I think murder is out of the question. I can’t think of any situation where I’d kill someone just to get what I want. On the other hand, I’ve been thinking about Mrs. Claus a lot.

Book Description: A beautifully written collection of short stories from critically acclaimed Pacific Northwest writer Justin Bog, Hark—A Christmas Collection explores the range of emotions surrounding the holidays. From melancholy to madness, loss and despair to hope and forgiveness, these six tales shimmer with feelings, some we’d rather stuff away, that Christmas can evoke.

Set in colorful locations around the United States, from Anacortes, Washington, to Ann Arbor, Michigan, and Sun Valley, Idaho, each tale focuses on people who struggle to make good choices, learn lessons, and maybe even find peace during the holiday season.

A bonus story, Poseidon Eyes, from Booktrope’s upcoming reissue of Sandcastle and Other Stories—The Complete Edition, is included.

Author Bio: Justin Bog lives in the Pacific Northwest on Fidalgo Island. Justin Bog was Pop Culture Correspondent and Editor for In Classic Style. He is an experimental cook, a lawn mower who colors outside the lines, and treat master to two long coat German shepherds, Zippy and Kipling, and two barn cats, Ajax The Gray and Eartha Kitt’n.

Coming soon:

How Do You Know (December 2nd)

What if you were approaching the end of your thirties and all of the life milestones you took for granted in your youth suddenly seemed out of reach? On the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday, Maggie Piper doesn’t look, act, or feel much different than she did at twenty-nine, but with her fortieth birthday speeding toward her like a freight train, she wonders if she should. The fear of a slowing metabolism, wrinkling of her skin, and the ticking of her biological clock leaves Maggie torn between a desire to settle down like most of her similarly aged peers and concern that all is not perfect in her existing relationship. When a spontaneous request for a temporary “break” from her live-in boyfriend results in a “break-up,” Maggie finds herself single once again and only twelve months from the big 4.0. In the profound yet bumpy year that follows, Maggie will learn, sometimes painfully, that life doesn’t always happen on a schedule, there are no deadlines in love, and age really is just a number.

Please give a warm welcome to K.M. Randall, author of Fractured Dream and The Reaper’s Daughter, to the Age is Just a Number blog series. K.M. dishes fearing the big 2.5. and how she finally no longer dreads birthdays.

Getting over birthdays

My hatred of birthdays began when I was twenty-two. I could already see the passing of my youth, and since I’d reached the legal drinking age the year before, what good was getting older? But it was my twenty-fifth birthday that I’ll always remember as the year I was misery personified. I wanted nothing more than to let it go by without anyone the wiser. I wanted to forget it, or at the very least pretend it wasn’t happening, pretend thirty wasn’t only five years away. Mortality beat a constant drum inside my conscience.

My friends, however, refused to let me stay twenty-four and had planned a night out dancing. To make a long story short, I was so sunk in my joylessness I ended up leaving the club and walking across the street to a friend’s house where I went to sleep, too depressed to have fun. That was the worst year. That was the year I floated, waiting to start grad school, finding myself in a relationship that was wholly unhealthy and abusive to myself, the year I wrote in a dark office but felt less accomplished than before I’d begun.

The birthdays after that weren’t as bad, although for the longest time it was a running joke between family and friends that I hated getting older. But when I was twenty-eight I fell in love, and even though he was three years younger than me, age didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. By the time thirty actually rolled around, age just wasn’t such a big deal and I only half-heartedly and jokingly grumped about this mark of time. My group of friends passed off the pink walker to me, a gift the birthday boy or girl had to store until the next friend hit a milestone, and I took it with good humor. I was thirty-two when my son was born and my thirty-third birthday later that year was merely a moment to reflect and enjoy my first year as a mother.

I’m not sure exactly what changed. Perhaps it was the inevitability. Maybe I’m just too busy to worry about getting old. I still don’t like it. I don’t like the health issues, the aches I sometimes feel that I didn’t have ten years ago, the passing of family and friends. But I like to believe that instead of dreading the turning of another year, I’ve learned to welcome life. It goes forward and so must I. I turn thirty-six this month, and instead of dread I’m excited for what’s to come. Now, when I hear someone younger than myself lament their age, I laugh to myself. I’ve been there. But I don’t dread my birthday. No one teases me anymore about my distaste for getting older because I choose not to focus on it as a negative. Instead, I look forward to the celebration of a life that I believe is more well-lived every year. Plus, it’s always a reason to drink good wine.

Bio

As a girl, K.M. always wished she’d suddenly come into magical powers or cross over into a Faerie circle. Although that has yet to happen, she instead lives vicariously through the characters she creates in writing fantasy and delving into the paranormal. When K.M. is not busy writing her next novel, she is a freelance editor and writer, and she also serves as an editor with Booktrope Publishing. She has a master’s degree in journalism from Syracuse University and a bachelor’s degree in English-Lit from Nazareth College of Rochester. K.M. lives in Upstate New York’s Finger Lakes region with her husband, her extremely energetic little boy, and their crazy Goldendoodle Luna. Her first novel, Fractured Dream: The Dreamer Saga, was published in June 2014, and her upcoming YA paranormal novel, The Reaper’s Daughter, is slated for release in February 2015.

What if you were approaching the end of your thirties and all of the life milestones you took for granted in your youth suddenly seemed out of reach?On the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday, Maggie Piper doesn’t look, act, or feel much different than she did at twenty-nine, but with her fortieth birthday speeding towards her like a freight train, she wonders if she should. The fear of a slowing metabolism, wrinkling of her skin, and the ticking of her biological clock leaves Maggie torn between a desire to settle down like most of her similarly-aged peers and concern that all is not perfect in her existing relationship. When a spontaneous request for a temporary “break” from her live-in boyfriend results in a “break-up,” Maggie finds herself single once again and only twelve months from the big 4.0. In the profound yet bumpy year that follows, Maggie will learn, sometimes painfully, that life doesn’t always happen on a schedule, there are no deadlines in love, and age really is just a number.

Welcome Julie Farley, author of The New Ever After book series, to the Age is Just a Number blog series! I love reading about individuals learning to accept themselves, warts and all. Not that I think Julie has any warts, of course. Keep reading for her thoughts on turning forty-one.

When Harry Met Sally was one of my favorite movies when I was in high school. As I went through my twenties and then my thirties, I always remembered when Sally was lamenting the fact that she was going to turn forty…in eight years. But as I approached the big number, I had the opposite reaction. I wanted to be forty. All of my friends were a little bit older than I was and for some weird reason, I longed to catch up with them. I craved the authority and respect that came with being forty. So the big day came and I roller-skated into the night with my BFFs and the milestone was reached with nothing but smiles.

And then forty-one arrived without any hoopla or excitement. Just another year older. And forty-two came with even less. At first I missed the celebration, multiple cakes and plethora of balloons that came along with the previous year’s milestone, but then a sense of satisfaction and contentment coursed through me something I hadn’t felt in the preceding decades.

I’m finally comfortable with my imperfections; the hair that turned grey rather prematurely, the spider veins I earned from carrying four children, and the muffin top that slowly creeps out of my low-rise jeans. I appreciate people who are real and their messes especially when they’re sprinkled with honesty. I’m on a path that I chose and one that I enjoy. I don’t care about being seen, the next new thing or dancing till dawn. I prefer intimate gatherings, conversations under the stars and things that tickle my whimsy even if they’re not the popular choices.

Life at forty-two is more raw and precious. I’ve gained an appreciation for carpe diem and YOLO the hard way. Moments are treasured and no longer taken for granted. The sky is a little more blue, the tulips a little more yellow, but my eyesight a little bit worse. Forty-two finds me relishing the crisp and the blurry and happily looking toward forty-three.

What if you were approaching the end of your thirties and all of the life milestones you took for granted in your youth suddenly seemed out of reach? On the eve of her thirty ninth birthday, Maggie Piper doesn’t look, act, or feel much different than she did at twenty-nine, but with her fortieth birthday speeding towards her like a freight train, she wonders if she should. The fear of a slowing metabolism, wrinkling of her skin, and the ticking of her biological clock leaves Maggie torn between a desire to settle down like most of her similarly-aged peers and concern that all is not perfect in her existing relationship. When a spontaneous request for a temporary “break” from her live-in boyfriend results in a “break-up,” Maggie finds herself single once again and only twelve months from the big 4.0. In the profound yet bumpy year that follows, Maggie will learn, sometimes painfully, that life doesn’t always happen on a schedule, there are no deadlines in love, and age really is just a number.Meredith Schorr, best-selling author of light women’s fiction, digs deep in her newest novel and raises the age old issue of the ‘proverbial clock’ that haunts many women, in a way that is refreshing and sassy no matter your age or relationship status.

Welcome, Arleen Williams, author of the Alki Trilogy, to the Age is Just a Number series. While reading Arleen’s wisdom-soaked post, I was moved to begin enjoying each and every moment of my life to its fullest. If only it wasn’t easier said than done…

The Final Third

“It’s time to start buying bananas one at a time.”

I can hear Dad’s voice in my ears. If he were here, he’d be teasing me now as I enter the sixth decade of life. But Dad passed a dozen years ago, and I’m giving myself at least another decade or two before following that particular piece of his advice.

“The older you get, the faster it goes.”

This too, Dad was apt to repeat in a voice filled with an odd mix of frustration, bewilderment and warning. Reluctantly, I’m beginning the see the truth in those words.

But mostly, as I enter this final third of life, I realize I’ve begun to count backwards. If I live to 90, that gives me 30 years. 85 gives me 25. So what am I going to do with those remaining years?

When I was younger, I took each year, each day, as it came, more reckless than I care to remember, blind to the reality of limitation. Life is not forever. Nor is health, strength or beauty.

In SATORI (Coffeetown Press, 2014), Jack Remick’s latest collection of poetry, he includes a poem titled “I Eat My Vegetables Every Day.” Here are a few lines:

I peel the fat off the skinless

chicken breast that I broil

and I eat broccoli and cauliflower

but I will not live forever.

Like Jack, I eat my broccoli and cauliflower. I exercise like a maniac, completing my first 200-mile bike ride last summer. And I try to make the best of the assets I was born with. Does any of that make me look or feel younger? Does it tighten the sagging skin or smooth the wrinkles? Does it add years or make the remaining years more enjoyable? Who knows?

I suppose what matters most is to live each day to the fullest, finding joy in every moment. Or as many as possible because “life isn’t all fun and games.”

But we’ve heard that before. Maybe, I wish I’d wasted fewer years wandering aimlessly trying to figure out who the hell I am. I began writing at forty-eight. My writing career will be shorter than that of others. So I make the most of the time I have. I count backwards and prioritize, deciding what’s important and what to let go.

If Dad’s right — and he seems to be — the final third will slip by in “the wink of an eye” and I refuse to squander a single second.

Arleen Williams is the author of three books. Running Secrets, the first novel in the Alki Trilogy, is about the power of friendship in helping overcome the dysfunction of family and life. Biking Uphill, book two of the Alki Trilogy, touches on thought-provoking contemporary political issues including immigration. The Thirty-Ninth Victim is a memoir of her family’s journey before and after her sister’s murder. Arleen teaches English as a Second Language at South Seattle College and has worked with immigrants and refugees for close to three decades. Arleen lives and writes in West Seattle. To learn more, please visit www.arleenwilliams.com.

Coming soon:

How Do You Know? – December 2nd.

What if you were approaching the end of your thirties and all of the life milestones you took for granted in your youth suddenly seemed out of reach?

On the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday, Maggie Piper doesn’t look, act, or feel much different than she did at twenty-nine, but with her fortieth birthday speeding towards her like a freight train, she wonders if she should. The fear of a slowing metabolism, wrinkling of her skin, and the ticking of her biological clock leaves Maggie torn between a desire to settle down like most of her similarly-aged peers and concern that all is not perfect in her existing relationship. When a spontaneous request for a temporary “break” from her live-in boyfriend results in a “break-up,” Maggie finds herself single once again and only twelve months from the big 4.0. In the profound yet bumpy year that follows, Maggie will learn, sometimes painfully, that life doesn’t always happen on a schedule, there are no deadlines in love, and age really is just a number.

I love this post by Julia Park Tracey, author of the upcoming Veronika Layne Gets the Scoop, on how differently she felt turning 31 compared to turning 30. I especially love her thoughts at the end on getting older in general. Enjoy!

When I’m 31 – A Horror Story
By Julia Park Tracey

When I was 29, turning 30, it was super cool. It was fun. It was fab, in fact. I had married young, I had birthed three kids already, and I felt ready to take on the accomplishment of surviving the decade. I threw myself a party. Got a babysitter for the kids. Asked for presents. I felt able to mock myself turning the ripe old age of thirty.
My party invitation was this poem:

Come to my 30th birthday.
Come gaze at this wonder.
Be with me as I come crashing
like a Chinese acrobat
through a paper hoop
into my fourth decade.
Measure my girth.
Marvel at the elasticity of my skin.
Witness the tiny clawmarks of time
around my eyes.
Carbon-date me.
Count my rings.
Come press the flesh
that in all those late hours with you
held a glass or laden tray,
a telling tale or a wailing bairn.
Come sip, sup with us
on this grand day
when I cease to be almost precocious
and set about sedate
and seemly middle age.
I finished with a flourish: “Do drop in – misery loves company!”

Funny stuff.

With that sass and flair I held my 30th party, I enjoyed the gifts, and I cruised through the year saying, “I’m thirty! Look at me – thirty! Isn’t this something? I. Am. Fabulous.”

And then. Full stop.

My birthday came around again. As they do. And O.M.G. It wasn’t good. Because there was something pert and saucy about being thirty. But 31? No. Not cool. It wasn’t cute, it wasn’t funny. It was just – old. It didn’t matter. I don’t think we did a thing to celebrate. I cried and sulked and ignored the day, and then was outraged that everyone else had ignored the day. I got the usual card from my mother which was the bouquet of flowers on the front and a Hallmark rhyme inside and I hated her and I hated myself and why did I have to be 31?

It was a hard one.

What made it so hard? Why was the round number OK, but the number plus one just ego-crushing? I think the difference was, maybe, hope? Despair? Seeing life catch up?

Comedy team Garfunkle and Oates, two bright feminist musicians who sing hilariously on-point songs about current events and social issues, have made a song about this most trying of ages, called “29/31.” (Watch it here – it’s amazeballs: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-gfxjAaZg0.)
The 29-year-old sings, in light, trilling tones, these words:
“I’m at the top of my game, possibilities are endless, and I just feel really pretty.
I’m holding out for someone who meets my standards, won’t settle for anything less than perfect.
I know what I want and I can have it; I’m surrounded by love and peace”
And then the 31-year-old bursts in, shrieking:
“There’s nobody left, I’m all alone!
Why the fuck did I wait? what’s wrong with me?
In two short years, I’m gonna be 33!
Who the hell who want me then? my ovaries are shrinking!
I’m disgusting and everyone feels bad for me
And I never get invited to dinner parties anymore”

The key distinction here, for the two ladies, is also hope. I think at 29 and 30, I had still the joyous bounce in my step of irrepressible energy, despite three young children. I could still get by on four hours of sleep. I still thought I was where I was going, if that makes sense.

Or where I wanted to be.

But when I hit 31, I felt boxed in. Tired. As if I had done all the things I would ever do, and that I was staring down a chute toward the dark end. I hadn’t traveled anywhere. I didn’t have a higher education. I was 31 with three kids and a strange marriage that kept getting stranger.

Turning 31 was hard.

Did I survive it? Yes – I’m writing this twenty years later, with several trips to Europe, a Master’s Degree, three grown daughters, a different husband, two grown step-children, and five books in print. It’s hard to see where we’re going sometimes, especially when you feel boxed in. When you haven’t stretched your wings yet. Thirty is not the end. Neither is forty, nor fifty. It gets better with every decade. Not easier or less stressful – but richer, deeper, more satisfying, less fraught. Better. In every sense.

So 31. You almost had me. But we’re cool now.

BIO
Julia Park Tracey is a freelance journalist, writing and editing newspapers and magazines in California and the author of forthcoming Booktrope novel. Veronika Layne Gets the Scoop is inspired by Julia’s real-life reporting. Julia has published a literary zine, taught writing classes, and helped start a newspaper. She is also the author of Tongues of Angels, and two award-winning bios about the Roaring Twenties, the Doris Diaries series. She has been blogging since 2003 and has won several awards for her personal essays and advocacy reporting. Julia lives in Northern California with her husband and son and adorable cat. Follow her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Goodreads, Amazon, and at http://www.juliaparktracey.com.

Blurb on forthcoming Veronika Layne Gets the Scoop:
Veronika Layne. Sassy, tattooed, twenty-something newspaper reporter. Never saw herself working for the “man.” When her small weekly is swallowed up by Singh Media Group, that’s exactly where she ends up. Stuck writing fluff pieces that might as well be ads, how can she resist digging into rumors that a real estate developer is destroying native burial grounds? Warned away at every turn by her editor, she worries whether the story will see the light of day? And, dazzled by her sexy rival-turned-coworker, what is she going to do about her love life?

Coming soon:

How Do You Know? – December 2nd.

What if you were approaching the end of your thirties and all of the life milestones you took for granted in your youth suddenly seemed out of reach?

On the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday, Maggie Piper doesn’t look, act, or feel much different than she did at twenty-nine, but with her fortieth birthday speeding towards her like a freight train, she wonders if she should. The fear of a slowing metabolism, wrinkling of her skin, and the ticking of her biological clock leaves Maggie torn between a desire to settle down like most of her similarly-aged peers and concern that all is not perfect in her existing relationship. When a spontaneous request for a temporary “break” from her live-in boyfriend results in a “break-up,” Maggie finds herself single once again and only twelve months from the big 4.0. In the profound yet bumpy year that follows, Maggie will learn, sometimes painfully, that life doesn’t always happen on a schedule, there are no deadlines in love, and age really is just a number.